


insomnia

by twotenths



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, Gen, Insomnia, Internal Monologue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 21:26:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10772757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twotenths/pseuds/twotenths
Summary: Late at night, when sleep is elusive and the world is silent, your mind can turn against you





	insomnia

**Author's Note:**

> Another of my old lj fics, originally posted towards the end of the 2011 season. It's okay Mark, your post F1 career was great ;__;

Tick, tick, tick.  
  
"Why am I still awake?"  
  
Tick.  
  
"Why can’t I sleep?"  
  
Tick.  
  
"I need sleep."  
  
Tick.  
  
The clock echoed deafeningly in the still, silent room, dutifully registering each second slipping past with its monotonous:  
  
Tick.  
  
Each treacherous second.  
  
Tick.  
  
A maddening aural checklist, each tiny fragment of time being-  
  
Ticked  
  
-Off.  
  
And in the silence, between each;  
  
Tick.  
  
Time seemed to mock him.  
  
Tick.  
  
 _You’re getting old, Mark._  
  
Tick.  
  
 _Another second gone._  
  
Tick.  
  
 _And another._  
  
Tick.  
  
 _Before you know it, Mark, yet another year has passed._  
  
Tick.  
  
 _Another wasted chance._  
  
Tick.  
  
 _Another missed opportunity._  
  
Tick  
  
 _How many more of these do you think you’ll get, Mark?_  
  
Tick.  
  
 _Sebastian didn’t waste time._  
  
Tick.  
  
 _He achieved everything you ever dreamed of in less than half the time you’ve been here._  
  
Tick.  
  
 _And now he’s taking his second crown._  
  
Tick.  
  
 _Time is passing you by._  
  
Tick.  
  
 _And you’re getting old._  
  
Tick.  
  
 _Of course you’re not the oldest on the grid Mark!_  
  
Tick.  
  
 _Don’t you think I’ve visited Rubens too?_  
  
Tick.  
  
 _Ferrari’s eternal bridesmaid._  
  
Tick.  
  
 _Then Jenson’s._  
  
Tick.  
  
 _Now desperately clinging to his seat in that dog of a car._  
  
Tick.  
  
 _Just so he can pretend._  
  
Tick.  
  
 _That I haven’t passed him by._  
  
Tick.  
  
 _You dare compare yourself to Michael Schumacher?_  
  
Tick.  
  
 _The great Michael Schumacher!_  
  
Tick.  
  
 _I never had to remind him._  
  
Tick.  
  
 _He used every second I gave him to achieve his goals._  
  
Tick.  
  
 _Yes, he may be defying me now._  
  
Tick.  
  
 _But with every fleeting moment I gave him beforehand, he made this sport his own._  
  
Tick.  
  
 _He owns everything here._  
  
Tick.  
  
 _He could drive your car if he wanted._  
  
Tick.  
  
 _All he’d have to do is give the command._  
  
Tick.  
  
 _And you’d be gone._  
  
Tick.  
  
 _To even think your career was comparable to his!_  
  
Tick.  
  
 _“Next year will be my year.”_  
  
Tick.  
  
 _You say this year after year, Mark, what makes you think it’ll be any different next time?_  
  
Tick.  
  
 _The team tire of you._  
  
Tick.  
  
 _And there’s always another driver waiting in the shadows, waiting for your seat._  
  
Tick.  
  
 _A man unravaged by time._  
  
The mocking clock hit the wall, smashing into pieces, yet still it’s mangled, twisted face seemed to jeer, “You cannot silence me, Mark, any better than you can stop the sands of time running through the hour glass.”  
  
As the hateful sunrise glared through the gap in the curtains, a weary man left the hotel room, leaving a couple of notes atop the shattered wreck of the seemingly innocent time piece for the hotel management to repair the damage and as an offering to Time itself to slow its passing before he let another chance slip through his fingers.


End file.
